I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  “You can finally make yourself happy without anyone else’s expectations in the way?”

  “Yes. I know he wanted what he thought was best for me, but it was never what I wanted for myself.”

  Her brown eyes get shiny, and she shakes her head and dives back into the margarita. “This is weirdly good for pre-mixed.”

  “It’s the company,” Tyler says gruffly.

  “Yes!” Veda beams at him. “Must be. Tell me something happy. How did you two meet?”

  “Oh, we’re not—” I start, but Tyler cuts me off.

  “Muffy called Nick Murphy a neanderthal in geek-speak at a bar one night after a game, and I was hooked.”

  Veda’s eyebrows bunch. “Who’s Nick Murphy? What game?”

  “Hockey,” I supply. “Remember my cousin, Kami? She married the Thrusters’ goaltender, Nick Murphy, last Christmas.”

  Veda bounces in her seat and smiles at Tyler. “You play for the Thrusters? That explains why your neck’s as wide as your head. I was guessing maybe football, but I can see hockey.”

  “You don’t follow hockey?” he asks her.

  “We root for Washington.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Better than Florida.”

  And now Veda’s frowning. “We. Holy shit. I can root for whoever I want to root for.”

  “Ooh, you can!” I take the margarita from her. “I can get you a list of the cutest mascots or the teams with the hottest players.”

  “Sitting right here with a rocket-powered bratwurst mascot and a hot thick neck,” Tyler mutters.

  I ignore him, mostly out of self-preservation, because now that Veda pointed it out, his thick neck is also super attractive. “Or you could turn into a baseball fan, or MMA, or even like, monster truck rallies if you wanted to.”

  “What about softball? Are there professional softball leagues?”

  “Oh! I know! You could become a soccer fan! Copper Valley has The Scorned—they’re a women’s soccer club—and they’re amazing. Plus, Tyler could probably introduce you to some of the players. Sportsers know sportsers, don’t you, Tyler?”

  She shakes her head before he can answer. “I’m not meeting people right now.”

  “Oh, no. Did you—”

  She waves a hand like she doesn’t want to talk about her dating life, which could mean anything from I broke up with someone recently to the rest of my family doesn’t want to know I’m currently dating a woman to I’m dating someone with commitment issues.

  “If Tyler judges you, I’ll kick him in the nuts,” I whisper to her, and I’m mostly positive he doesn’t hear me.

  Or he’s thinking I’d have to catch him first, and he knows exactly how many Donettes I ate this afternoon.

  She laughs. “It’s not that, I promise. Enough about me. Tell me about Muff Matchers.”

  “It’s great!”

  She tilts a brow at me.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “It’s still super slow, though I did make three matches since August, I’m expanding my network of men who pass my new standards testing, and all of my clients are making friends with each other and the Muff Matchers support group and newsletter keeps getting better, and we have people with us now who aren’t even clients. Yet. Still… It’s just…”

  “Hard to overcome years and years of stereotypes to find the people who see past what looks like less than perfect while convincing women who are told from birth that they’re not worthy that they actually are and should have standards?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyler’s watching me over his fries.

  I don’t think he pigeonholes me as a loser, but then, he’s not kicking Veda out and trying to talk me out of my clothes either.

  If anything, he looked relieved when she showed up.

  Yet I’m still sitting here thinking he’s the hottest thing since that egg white omelet that Mom accidentally set on fire yesterday.

  “Maybe you change tactics?” Veda says. “Maybe you concentrate more on the support group and newsletter aspect? God knows women like you and me could use a shot of confidence when it comes to what makes us attractive.”

  Tyler chokes on his fish.

  Not hard to understand why. Veda’s flawlessly gorgeous. A socially respectable size six, D-cups, clear skin, shiny black hair, big brown eyes, pillowy lips, eyebrows that behave in whatever the latest brow style is, and the world’s most perfect nose, which she’s decorated with a single small diamond stud.

  She also has the most gorgeous rose tattoo on her ribs, which he doesn’t know, but I suspect he’d like to.

  She and I share a look.

  He has no idea, she’s telegraphing.

  Men are so superficial, I telegraph back.

  I take a long gulp, then turn my clunky, not-so-comfy hotel chair so I’m angled toward him as well as Veda. “Tyler, when you were growing up, did your parents ever tell you that you should play hockey less and concentrate on your grades more?”

  He pulls a face. “Youngest of six. I got to do whatever I wanted, and my sisters bitched about it despite going out of their way to make sure I knew they adored me too.”

  “So your parents didn’t tell you you’d never be a neurosurgeon if you didn’t ace your third-grade science project on the life cycle of frogs?” Veda asks.

  “And they didn’t burn your Halloween candy in the fireplace because it was better for your hips long term?” I add.

  “And they didn’t tell you that the neighbors’ kids got better grades than you three quarters in a row when you got A’s and they got A plusses?”

  “And they didn’t ask if you were sure you wanted to wear your hair that way, and maybe you shouldn’t smile so big when your teeth made you look like a horse?”

  “And they didn’t tell you to join chess club instead of being a cheerleader?”

  I whip my head around. “Oh my gosh, you wanted to be a cheerleader? I didn’t know that!”

  Veda’s smiling again. “My school colors were sky blue and white and the uniforms were so cute. And the cheerleaders always had those ribbons in their hair.”

  “I wanted to be the top of the pyramid but my dad always said no one else would be able to lift me!”

  We stare at each other, and maybe it’s the margarita, or maybe it’s emotions, but suddenly we’re hugging each other and crying.

  “My dad wanted me to take horseback riding lessons and learn to play polo so I could go to an Ivy League school,” Veda sobs. “When I got rejected by all of them, he never looked at me the same again.”

  “When my parents got divorced, my mom took me on giant shopping trips and tried to make me wear the cutest clothes but my shoulders were too wide for the cute tops and I always muffin-topped out of the cute shorts, and one time, I muffin-bottomed. My thighs had rolls under the jean short cuffs.”

  “You’re perfect exactly the way you are, Muffy.”

  “Any man or woman would be so lucky to have you, Veda.”

  “Same, Muffy. Same.”

  “Why is it always two chicks?” Tyler mutters.

  At least, I think that’s what he mutters. When I lift my head and peer through the blurriness at him, he’s dumping his fish and chips in the trash and pocketing his wallet. “Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Where are we going?” Veda asks.

  “Like, leaving Richmond leaving, or leaving the hotel leaving?”

  “I have to be at the funeral in the morning or my uncle will disown me.” Veda cocks her head. “Actually, I don’t care if he disowns me. I think the only thing he’s leaving me is his pet fish and a few more insecurities, because he thinks I should’ve been a lawyer and gone into politics, and I’m allergic to aquariums. Let’s hit the beach. I’m not allergic to sea life. Only sea life kept in buildings.”

  Tyler presses his palm into his eye socket.

  He’s seriously hot, standing there looking like he wants to strangle someone.

  And it doesn’t le
ssen the hotness factor that I’m pretty sure the someone he wants to strangle is me.

  “We’re getting dinner,” he informs us. “And while we’re there, you two are going to sit there and tell each other good things about yourselves and then we’re all getting drunk. Or possibly drunker.”

  Veda squints at him. “I get to say good things about Muffy?”

  “No. You get to say good things about yourself. And Muffy gets to say good things about herself. And I get to suffer through it all in my vodka and steak. And if either of you tell me you’re vegan or fruititarian or potato-tarian, or you only eat cocktail shrimp or watermelon soup or whatever, tough shit.”

  “He grew up with four older sisters,” I whisper to Veda. “Something tells me this won’t be the first time he’s had to do this.”

  “He’s seriously hot in the protective kind of way. You should really think about dating him for real,” she whispers back.

  He glares at her.

  “Told you she’d know you were only doing me a favor,” I say to him.

  “It’s not that Muffy’s not hot enough for you,” Veda says. “She doesn’t date. And I did want to know how you met because it’s just as interesting when friends who’ll go to funerals with you meet as it is when lovers meet.”

  A muscle ticks in his neck, which really is as wide as his head. I hadn’t noticed until Veda pointed it out, since his beard technically makes his face wider than his neck, but she’s right.

  He has a very thick neck.

  “Ride’s here,” he grunts.

  I grab my shoes and shove Veda’s at her too. “C’mon. Let’s go get dinner.”

  “But not anywhere my father or his friends or colleagues would go,” she says quickly.

  “Deal.”

  14

  Tyler

  We drive ten miles south of town to a busy exit off the interstate with a popular chain sports bar not far off the main drag, and now I’m trapped in a booth with Muffy and her friend Veda, who are breaking all of my rules and saying nice things about each other but nothing nice about themselves while I chow through a steak.

  The bar’s playing the Washington-Denver hockey game on one screen, the LA-New York basketball game on another screen, and the Chicago-New England football game on a third screen.

  I could easily lose myself in any of the three, but instead, I’m paying attention to the women.

  Neither of them have said a word about me passing out at the funeral home.

  Not exactly. Muffy did give me very specific looks while she made that side trip to Cod Pieces before we got to the hotel, like she knew that was my comfort food, and that, more than anything, has me in a mood.

  Muffy Periwinkle is not supposed to take care of me.

  She’s too flighty for that.

  Or is she?

  She is the same woman who once texted me after a game to ask me to go to Chester Green’s and “accidentally” bump into a specific table where she overheard a family talking about how I was their favorite player, and they came all the way in from Chicago for the game, and wouldn’t it be cool if I showed up at the hockey bar?

  Another time, she saved Klein from a bunch of pissed-off fans by pretending to be his angry pregnant girlfriend, speaking only in some kind of French-Russian accent and using broken English to accuse him of leaving her out of his planned orgy, which left them feeling incredibly sorry for him instead of angry.

  And then there was the time we were playing darts at a party at Lavoie’s house and I swear she threw the game for the sake of my ego.

  Must’ve been beginner’s luck, she’d said with a shrug when she couldn’t hit the board anymore.

  Her methods might be weird, but until she came shrieking into Murphy’s house the other day, begging for a date, she’s not usually asking for things for herself.

  Tonight?

  Yeah. Tonight she’s definitely in need of something.

  And I want to know why.

  She and Veda are doing that silent communication thing my sisters do sometimes, and I’m positive Muffy’s told her friend to not speak a word about when they were in med school together here, because every time one of them says Blackwell or school or anything else related to education, the conversation abruptly stops, and they switch to the weather or Muff Matchers or Veda’s family practice or stories about their parents.

  Mostly Muffy’s mom and Veda’s dad, since Veda’s mom apparently died when she was young, and Muffy’s dad moved away when she was in grade school after her parents’ divorce, and she got very creative in finding ways to avoid going to her assigned weekends with him.

  Plus, there are endless stories to tell about Hilda Periwinkle.

  I’ve only met the woman a handful of times and also have stories from every single time.

  Makes sense.

  Also, no, I don’t want to talk about any of them. The woman has even fewer boundaries than my sisters, and that takes skills that I’d prefer to avoid.

  Once I’m done with my steak and on to my third beer, I turn my phone back on and catch up on all the messages from all day long about my brother-in-law’s vasectomy issues.

  He’s fine now. Back home. Resting with more ice.

  But I have a private, one-on-one text message from my sister-in-law asking if I’m okay and threatening to bring the whole family into it if I don’t answer her immediately.

  Shit.

  “Bathroom,” I grunt to the women.

  I’m dialing Daisy before I’ve left the table, on my way to the brightly lit parking lot in the chilly evening.

  Feels good to not be boxed in.

  “Tyler! You’re alive!” Daisy cheers after picking up on the second ring.

  “What exactly were you planning on telling my family if I didn’t call you?”

  “I heard you passed out at a funeral home. West’s packing our bags. If you’re going to pass out and die, you couldn’t pick a better place than a funeral home, but I’m really glad you’re not dead. At least, not yet. What are you doing in Richmond? How did you know Professor Harris?”

  Professor Harris.

  That must be Veda’s dad. I don’t actually know her last name. Or maybe that’s the funeral guy and she thinks I hang out at mortuaries three hours from my place for fun. “How do you know Professor Harris?” I counter.

  “I don’t. I know Barry, the funeral home director. Long story. It involves a hippo and a stun gun mishap on a vacation in an undisclosed location. But not a stun gun used on a hippo, to clarify. Anyway, he recognized you and texted me to ask me to let him know how you’re doing. So, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t come. I’m doing a friend a favor.”

  “A girl friend?”

  The idea of Muffy as my girlfriend doesn’t make my balls retract fully into my body, which may or may not be a bad sign. Clearly, I’m out of my normal element, and it’s affecting my brain. “Don’t you dare start…”

  “West, Ty’s okay,” she calls. “He says not to come because it was all a plot to score points with a woman. So we’re still going, right?”

  “I forgot to eat. Got lightheaded. Passed out.”

  “And screamed,” she says helpfully over West’s answer in the background about if they’re still coming, which I can’t make out clearly. “Who’s your friend?”

  “We’re not discussing this.”

  “I can ask your sisters.”

  “And I can clear out my bank account, ditch my phone, use cash to fly to an obscure tropical island, and never have to see any of you again.” Which would be boring as hell, but I’m not telling her that.

  “Aww, sweet boy. You’re forgetting there’s basically nowhere you can go that your brother won’t find you. He loves you too much to let you disappear and not look for you, and I love him too much to not give him all the resources he needs to succeed. Actually, he probably loves you more than your sisters do. You know if they knew what I knew, they’d be all over a group message by now, but he�
��s very politely asked me to not tell them until you say it’s okay. Also, I love you too much to do that to you. So. Tell me about your girlfriend.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  “But you want her to be.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  There’s a beat of silence. Then, Daisy does what she always does.

  She finds the drama.

  Do not underestimate a woman who spent her twenties alternating between high-powered board rooms and party yachts. “Oh my god, something weird happened between you two!”

  Yeah. Something weird happened. And right now, I want to march into that restaurant, pull Muffy out of her seat, kiss her senseless, and tell her she deserves better than what the world’s given her, which is also weird.

  I’m no champion for anyone unless I have to be, and have to be is limited to the women I’m related to. More often, their husbands. “I’m hanging up now.”

  “That wasn’t a denial.”

  “I have two women in mourning waiting for me. They shouldn’t be alone. Lots of alcohol. Lots of regrets. Lots of bad decisions coming. It’ll be like Allie after Fox canceled Firefly. Or like Keely after Keebler quit making those magic middle cookies. Ask West. It’s bad. My services are needed. And there are two of them. I need to go.”

  I’m not really exaggerating. I can see the women through the wooden slat blinds, and they’re hugging again. Muffy’s face is splotchy.

  And I want to put a fist through her father’s face. Her mother’s too.

  I can rarely find pants that fit well. My ass and thighs are huge. Side effect of all the skating. Hockey butt’s a thing. There are web pages devoted to shots of our butts.

  So the shopping thing they were talking about?

  I get it. Clothes that fit are hard to find when you’re not a fashion-industry-approved size.

  Except I’m celebrated for my shape, and Muffy was made to feel ashamed of hers before she’d fully developed.

  That pisses me off.

  My mom uses my struggle as a bit in her shows sometimes, making fun of her mom-hips and talking about borrowing my shorts and jeans since those are clearly socially acceptable.